


Thunder

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dark John, M/M, beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 21:07:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20378125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: An angsty little piece because of reasons, which takes place on a beach.(Hints of emotional/physical abuse so please don’t read if it’s something that you’re comfortable with)





	Thunder

“Because you’ll never understand what it’s like.”

White horses crashed over the pebbles and ran towards John’s bare toes. They halted, then retreated back into the murky depths from which they’d arisen. The wind picked up and with it more waves charged at the shoreline. Above them, thunder rolled across the dark sky, the cheering spectator of battle.

“John, I understand a lot more than you give me credit for. We’ve known one another for ten years and yet you’re always amazed at how much I know,” Sherlock told him, slightly exasperated but he endeavoured to keep his voice calm. 

He looked up at the darkening sky, squinting at a gull as it flew overhead. He sighed quietly, mustering any small amount of strength he had to greet John’s argument and compose his own without accidentally offending John more than he already had done that day. Sherlock turned to look back at John, then launched into his proposed execution of the brewing debate.

“You’re unhappy with me because I’m an unfeeling machine and therefore couldn’t possibly understand that, sometimes, people get sad or they’re happy or they’re horny or they just need a hug,” Sherlock said. “I understand emotions, I have emotions. I would be a pretty awful detective if I couldn’t understand other people’s emotions; emotions are often the driving motive in crime.”

John couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

Behind Sherlock, far out to sea, lightning briefly illuminated the sky. John talked over the ensuing thunder clap.

“That’s not what I meant at all,” John bit back. “I’m unhappy with you because you’re an annoying, selfish, condescending prick.”

Sherlock blinked, taken by surprise by John’s straightforwardness.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. The problem is, Sherlock,” John step, taking a step towards Sherlock. Dry seaweed and shingle cracked under his feet. “That you’re constantly in my way. Earlier, when I was washing up, you were practically standing on my feet. You’re clingy. You’re so, so needy, and you expect the world to be handed to you on a silver fucking platter.” 

John hadn’t meant to lose his temper, but as his speech grew and as the storm clouds darkened and lightning and thunder moved closer to the shoreline something within John snapped. Maybe it was the alcohol, his cheek rosy from the whisky he’d been sipping by the fire. And Sherlock, sandwiched between John and the sea, was helpless in the tirade.

“I know you’ve always had everyone clean up after you. Mummy and daddy dote on their ickle Sherly the Curly, yeah, I know they used to call you that,” John added, after seeing Sherlock’s mortified face. “And Mycroft follows you around like a fucking shadow, dust pan and brush in hand ready and waiting to clean up your shit and soothe your ego. He thinks he’s in control, but you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, haven’t you? And how long have I spent running around after you, hm?”

“You’re drunk,” Sherlock grumbled, then made to walk past John.

John’s hand caught Sherlock’s elbow. He gripped it, hard. In this position John could easily manipulate Sherlock into an armlock and Sherlock felt his bones scrape as John tightened his grip. It hurt, a lot. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” John murmured, his voice as cold as the North Sea crashing against the rocks behind them. “Running away from your problems? Again?”

“There’s a thunderstorm and we’re by the sea,” Sherlock replied, keeping his voice levee. “I don’t fancy being struck by lightning today, do you?”

John’s eyes narrowed a fraction, and he released Sherlock’s elbow with such aggression that made Sherlock wish he’d just held on.

He wanted to nurse his elbow, help with the circulation a bit, but the rain was beginning to fall and they had to get inside, back into the beach chalet where Sherlock’s parents and Rosie were waiting for them. 

“Come on,” Sherlock said, “lets go back inside.” 

Heavy rain swept across the sea, a grey swarm of locusts blocking the horizon as they hurtled towards the beach. 

John shook his head.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked at him. “What?”

John took a deep breath, then shook his head and looked down. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, then unfurled themselves. Sherlock noticed that he was shaking. 

“I’m not the man you think I am.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. A gull laughed in the distance, perched on the roof of the beach chalet as the tide rolled closer.

“Of course you are. John, this really is ridiculous. We have to go inside. You can have a midlife crisis inside just as good, if not better, than you can outside.”

Yet more lightning flashed across the sky and Sherlock skirted around John in a dash towards the chalet. He knew John would follow him, maybe to pulverise him but at least he didn’t run the risk of being struck by lightning. 

However, John didn’t follow him. He made no move to stop him, either. He hung his head, and as Sherlock halted, the stones beneath his feet grinding against one another as sandhoppers darted about around his feet, John began laughing.

“You’re such an idiot,” John told him, throwing his head back as he laughed at the sky. The thunder grumbled, chortling with him. “Oh, Sherlock. You’re so stupid.”

Sherlock frowned.

“I’m not.”

“You are.” John chuckled. “You’re a moron. And manipulating you was so easy, because everyone, and I mean everyone, hates you.” John turned to face him. “It was so easy to waltz into your life and pretend to be your friend, for just a little bit. And you lapped it up. Because you piss off everyone you meet. It’s sad, really.”

Sherlock could hardly register what he was hearing, but he knew that what he was being told paled in comparison to the bruise swelling on his arm.

“Pretend?” He asked quietly. “You’re my partner, John. You can’t pretend something like that.”

“You can,” John chuckled, “and I did.”


End file.
